| Issue 46, Vol. 2 |
December 24, 2003 |
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A Christmas Story
The old man sat in his gas station on a cold Christmas Eve. He hadn't been
anywhere in years since his wife had passed away. He had no decorations,
no tree, no lights. It was just another day to him. He didn't hate
Christmas, just couldn't find a reason to celebrate. There were no
children in his life. His wife had gone.
He was sitting there looking at the snow that had been falling for the
last hour and wondering what it was all about when the door opened and
a homeless man stepped through. Instead of throwing the man out,
George, Old George as his customers knew him, told the man to come and sit
by the space heater and warm up. "Thank you, but I don't mean to intrude,"
said the stranger. "I see you're busy. I'll just go."
"Not without something hot in your belly," George turned and opened a wide
mouth Thermos and handed it to the stranger. "It ain't much, but it's hot
and tasty. Stew. Made it myself. When you're done there's coffee and it's
fresh."
Just at that moment he heard the "ding" of the driveway bell. "Excuse me,
be right back," George said. There in the driveway was an old 53
Chevy. Steam was rolling out of the front. The driver was panicked.
"Mister can you help me!" said the driver with a deep Spanish accent. "My
wife is with child and my car is broken." George opened the hood - it was
bad. The block looked cracked from the cold; the car was dead. "You ain't
going in this thing," George said as he turned away. "But mister, please
help." The door of the office closed behind George as he went in. George
went to the office wall and got the keys to his old truck, and went back
outside. He walked around the building and opened the garage, started the
truck and drove it around to where the couple was waiting.
"Here, you can borrow my truck," he said. "She ain't the best thing you
ever looked at, but she runs real good." George helped put the woman in
the truck and watched as it sped off into the night. George turned and
walked back inside the office. "Glad I loaned 'em the truck. Their tires
were shot too. That 'ol truck has brand new tires..." George thought he
was talking to the stranger, but the man had gone. The thermos was on the
desk, empty with a used coffee cup beside it. "Well, at least he got
something in his belly," George thought. George went back outside to see
if the old Chevy would start. It cranked slowly, but it started. He pulled
it into the garage where the truck had been. He thought he would tinker
with it for something to do. Christmas Eve meant no customers. He
discovered the block hadn't cracked, it was just the bottom hose on the
radiator.
"Well, I can fix this," he said to himself. So he put a new one on.
"Those tires ain't gonna get 'em through the winter either." He took the
snow treads off of his wife's old Lincoln. They were like new and he
wasn't going to drive the car.
As he was working he heard a shot being fired. He ran outside and beside a
police car an officer lay on the cold ground. Bleeding from the left
shoulder, the officer moaned, "Help me." George helped the officer inside
as he remembered the training he had received in the Army as a medic. He
knew the wound needed attention. "Pressure to stop the bleeding," he
thought. The laundry company had been there that morning and had left
clean shop towels. He used those and duct tape to bind the wound. "Hey,
they say duct tape can fix anything,'" he said, trying to make the
policeman feel at ease. "Something for pain," George thought. All he had
was the pills he used for his back. "These ought to work." He put some
water in a cup and gave the policeman the pills. "You hang in there. I'm
going to get you an ambulance." George said, but the phone was dead.
"Maybe I can get one of your buddies on that there talk box out in your
police car." He went out only to find that a bullet had gone into the
dashboard destroying the two-way radio. He went back in to find the
policeman sitting up. "Thanks," said the officer. "You could have left me
there. The guy who shot me is still in the area."
George sat down beside him. "I would never leave an injured man in the
Army and I ain't gonna leave you." George pulled back the bandage to check
for bleeding. "Looks worse than what it is. Bullet passed right through
'ya. Good thing it missed the important stuff though. I think with time
your gonna be right as rain." George got up and poured a cup of coffee.
"How do you take it?" he asked. "None for me," said the officer. "Oh, yer
gotta drink this. Best in the city." Then George added: "Too bad I ain't
got no donuts." The officer laughed and winced at the same time.
The front door of the office flew open. In burst a young man with a gun.
"Give me all your cash! Do it now!" the young man yelled. His hand was
shaking and George could tell that he had never done anything like this
before.
"That's the guy that shot me!" exclaimed the officer. "Son, why are you
doing this?" asked George. "You need to put the cannon away. Somebody else
might get hurt." The young man was confused. "Shut up old man, or I'll
shoot you, too. Now give me the cash!" The cop was reaching for his gun.
"Put that thing away," George said to the cop. "We got one too many in
here now." He turned his attention to the young man. "Son, it's Christmas
Eve. If you need the money, well then, here. It ain't much but it's all I
got. Now put that pee shooter away." George pulled $150 out of his pocket
and handed it to the young man, reaching for the barrel of the gun at the
same time. The young man released his grip on the gun, fell to his knees
and began to cry. "I'm not very good at this am I? All I wanted was to buy
something for my wife and son," he went on. "I've lost my job. My rent is
due. My car got repossessed last week..."
George handed the gun to the cop. "Son, we all get in a bit of squeeze now
and then. The road gets hard sometimes, but we make it through the best we
can." He got the young man to his feet, and sat him down on a chair across
from the cop. "Sometimes we do stupid things." George handed the young man
a cup of coffee. "Being stupid is one of the things that makes us human.
Comin' in here with a gun ain't the answer. Now sit there and get warm and
we'll sort this thing out." The young man had stopped crying. He looked
over to the cop. "Sorry I shot you. It just went off. I'm sorry officer."
"Shut up and drink your coffee." the cop said.
George could hear the sounds of sirens outside. A police car and an
ambulance skidded to a halt. Two cops came through the door, guns drawn.
"Chuck! You ok?" one of the cops asked the wounded officer. "Not bad for a
guy who took a bullet. How did you find me?" "GPS locator in the car. Best
thing since sliced bread. Who did this?" the other cop asked as he
approached the young man. Chuck answered him, "I don't know. The guy ran
off into the dark. Just dropped his gun and ran."
George and the young man both looked puzzled at each other. "That guy
works here," the wounded cop continued. "Yep," George said. "Just hired
him this morning. Boy lost his job."
The paramedics came in and loaded Chuck onto the stretcher. The young man
leaned over the wounded cop and whispered, "Why?" Chuck just said, "Merry
Christmas, boy. And you too, George, and thanks for everything."
"Well, looks like you got one doozy of a break there. That ought to solve
some of your problems." George went into the back room and came out with a
box. He pulled out a ring box. "Here you go. Something for the little
woman. I don't think Martha would mind. She said it would come in handy
some day."
The young man looked inside to see the biggest diamond ring he ever saw.
"I can't take this," said the young man. "It means something to you." "And
now it means something to you," replied George. "I got my memories. That's
all I need."
George reached into the box again. A toy airplane, a racing car, and a
little metal truck appeared next. They were toys that the oil company had
left for him to sell. "Here's something for that little man of yours." The
young man began to cry again as he handed back the $150 that the old man
had handed him earlier.
"And what are you supposed to buy Christmas dinner with? You keep that,
too. Count it as part of your first week's pay." George said. "Now get
home to your family."
The young man turned with tears streaming down his face. "I'll be here in
the morning for work, if that job offer is still good?" "Nope. I'm closed
Christmas day," George said. "See ya the day after."
George turned around to find that the stranger had returned. "Where'd you
come from? I thought you left?" "I have been here. I have always been
here," said the stranger. "You say you don't celebrate Christmas.
Why?"
"Well, after my wife passed away I just couldn't see what all the bother
was. Puttin' up a tree and all seemed a waste of a good pine tree. Bakin'
cookies like I used to with Martha just wasn't the same by myself and
besides I was getting a little chubby."
The stranger put his hand on George's shoulder. "But you do celebrate the
holiday, George. You gave me food and drink and warmed me when I was cold
and hungry. The woman with child will bear a son and he will become a
great doctor.
The policeman you helped will go on to save 19 people from being killed by
terrorists. The young man who tried to rob you will become a rich man and
share his wealth with many people. That is the spirit of the season and
you keep it as good as any man."
George was taken aback by all this stranger had said. "And how do you know
all this?" asked the old man. "Trust me, George. I have the inside track
on this sort of thing. And when your days are done you will be with Martha
again." The stranger moved toward the door.
"If you will excuse me, George, I have to go now. I have to go home where
there is a big celebration planned." George watched as the man's worn old
jacket and his torn pants turned into a white robe. A golden light began
to fill the room.
"You see, George it's my birthday. Merry Christmas!"
Reprinted from PAG eNews, but sent to TCM by many subscribers and friends.
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Christmas Giving By Joseph J. Mazzella
The Christmas season is here once again and I truly am enjoying it. I
love Christmas time. I agree with the song that "It’s the most wonderful
time of the year." I smile at the beautiful lights shining on the
houses. I enjoy the cheerful decorations in the stores and on the trees.
I thrill at the crisp air and beautiful snow that turns the mountains
here into a winter wonderland. I rejoice in the glorious carols that
fill the air with music and our hearts with joy. I love seeing the looks
of wonder and delight that are on all the children’s faces. Most of all,
though, I love the spirit of the season. It is a spirit of love and joy,
faith and hope, rebirth and renewal, goodness, giving, and oneness with
God.
It is that spirit that we should strive to live in each and everyday of
our lives. It is that spirit that we should always seek to share with
the world. It is that spirit that we should make as our first Christmas
gift to everyone we meet. After all, it isn’t the gift or even the
thought that counts but rather the spirit in which the gift is given. If
we give all of our gifts in the spirit of Christmas love and joy then a
smile, a kind word, a laugh, a card, or even a tiny gift becomes
priceless in its value. If we give all of our gifts in the spirit of
Christmas love and joy then it is that love and joy that becomes the
true gift and grows in the hearts and souls of those we give it to. If
we give all of our gifts in the spirit of Christmas love and joy then we
are giving a bit of ourselves, a bit of Heaven and a bit of God as well.
May you have a very Merry Christmas then. May your heart and soul be
full to overflowing with the Christmas spirit always. May all of your
gifts to others be full of love, joy, goodness,kindness, happiness, and
the eternal spirit of Christmas.
Reprinted from Prose N Poems |
The Legend of Babushka
It was the night the
dear Christ-Child came to Bethlehem. In a country far away from Him, an
old, old woman named Babushka sat in her snug little house by her warm
fire. The wind was drifting the snow outside and howling down the chimney,
but it only made Babushka's fire burn more brightly.
"How glad I am
that I may stay indoors," said Babushka, holding her hands out to
the bright blaze.
But suddenly she heard
a loud rap at her door. She opened it and her candle shone on three old
men standing outside in the snow. Their beards were as white as the snow,
and so long that they reached the ground. Their eyes shone kindly in the
light of Babushka's candle, and their arms were full of precious things—boxes
of jewels, and sweet-smelling oils, and ointments.
"We have travelled
far, Babushka," they said, "and we stop to tell you of the Baby
Prince born this night in Bethlehem. He comes to rule the world and teach
all men to be loving and true. We carry Him gifts. Come with us, Babushka."
But Babushka looked
at the drifting snow, and then inside at her cozy room and the crackling
fire. "It is too late for me to go with you, good sirs," she
said, "the weather is too cold." She went inside again and shut
the door, and the old men journeyed on to Bethlehem without her. But as
Babushka sat by her fire, rocking, she began to think about the Little
Christ-Child, for she loved all babies.
"Tomorrow I will go to find Him,
" she said; "tomorrow, when it is light, and I will carry Him some toys."
So when it was morning
Babushka put on her long cloak and took her staff, and filled her basket
with the pretty things a baby would like—gold balls, and wooden
toys, and strings of silver cobwebs—and she set out to find the
Christ-Child.
But, oh, Babushka
had forgotten to ask the three old men the road to Bethlehem, and they
travelled so far through the night that she could not overtake them. Up
and down the road she hurried, through woods and fields and towns, saying
to whomsoever she met: "I go to find the Christ-Child. Where does
He lie? I bring some pretty toys for His sake."
But no one could tell
her the way to go, and they all said: "Farther on, Babushka, farther
on." So she travelled on and on and on for years and years—but
she never found the little Christ-Child.
They say that old
Babushka is travelling still, looking for Him. When it comes Christmas
Eve, and the children are lying fast asleep, Babushka comes softly through
the snowy fields and towns, wrapped in her long cloak and carrying her
basket on her arm. With her staff she raps gently at the doors and goes
inside and holds her candle close to the little children's faces.
"Is He here?"
she asks. "Is the little Christ-Child here?" And then she turns
sorrowfully away again, crying: "Farther on, farther on!" But
before she leaves she takes a toy from her basket and lays it beside the
pillow for a Christmas gift. "For His sake," she says softly,
and then hurries on through the years and forever in search of the little
Christ-Child.
Adapted from
the Russian folk tale
Reprinted from Life's Adventures |
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"Christmas is a magic blanket that wraps itself about us, intangible, like a fragrance. It may weave a spell of nostalgia. It may be a day of feasting or prayer, but always it will be a day of remembrance, a day in which we think of everything we have ever loved."
--Augusta E. Rundel
Link and quote furnished by Cappy Hall-Rearick
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A Soldier's Christmas
The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,
I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
My daughter beside me, angelic in rest..
Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight.
The sparkling lights in the tree, I believe,
Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve..
My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep
In perfect contentment, or so it would seem.
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream..
The sound wasn't loud, and it wasn't too near,
But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear.
Perhaps just a cough, I didn't quite know,
Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow..
My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
And I crept to the door just to see who was near.
Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.
A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child..
"What are you doing?" I asked without fear
"Come in this moment, it's freezing out here!
Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!".
For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts,
To the window that danced with a warm fire's light
Then he sighed and he said "Its really all right,
I'm out here by choice. I'm here every night".
"It's my duty to stand at the front of the line,
That separates you from the darkest of times.
No one had to ask or beg or implore me,
I'm proud to stand here like my fathers before me.
My Gramps died at Pearl on a day in December,
Then he sighed, 'That's a Christmas 'Gram always remembers.'
My dad stood his watch in the jungles of 'Nam
And now it is my turn and so, here I am.
I've not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he's sure got her smile."
Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red white and blue... an American flag..
"I can live through the cold and the being alone,
Away from my family, my house and my home,
I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat,
I can carry the weight of killing another
Or lay down my life with my sister and brother
who stand at the front against any and all,
to ensure for all time that this flag will not fall.".
"So go back inside," he said, "harbor no fright
Your family is waiting and I'll be all right.".
"But isn't there something I can do, at the least,
"Give you money," I asked, "or prepare you a feast?
It seems all too little for all that you've done,
For being away from your wife and your son.".
Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
"Just tell us you love us, and never forget
To fight for our rights back at home while we're gone.
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.
For when we come home, either standing or dead,
To know you remember we fought and we bled
is payment enough, and with that we will trust.
That we mattered to you as you mattered to us.
Author unknown
Reprinted from The Good Stuff Include "Subscribe" In the SUBJECT Line of Your Request
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Christmas Treat
1 stick oleo
12 oz. chocolate chips
1 cup nutmeats
5 oz. colored miniature marshmallows
1 cup coconut (optional)
Melt oleo and chips until creamy. Fold in marshmallows. Spread nutmeats (and coconut, if you choose) on wax paper. Cover with marshmallow-chocolate mixture. Roll up like jelly roll. Refrigerate until solid. Slice and serve.
A favorite recipe from The Amish Cook
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The Legacy
by Cappy Hall Rearick
Many years ago, a master fiddle maker moved to a tiny town and began carving handsome, quality instruments. His work was well respected and word of his extraordinary talent spread far and wide.
He was a good man who loved his family, his work, and his church. He thanked God every day for giving him the pleasant task of carving music with his hands.
As he shaped and molded, whittled and sanded, he thought of the sweet refrains and haunting melodies that would eventually spring from the fiddle in his hands. At times, he was sure that he could hear notes floating into the air from the solid piece of wood. Those were the nights he slept soundly with peace in his heart.
But as life sometimes does, his own took a bad turn. After years of fashioning one fiddle after the other, each one more beautiful than the last, he began to notice dull pains in his hands and fingers, indications that his carving days were limited.
He had a family to provide for, children to clothe and feed. His biggest fear was that no one would hire him if his condition ever became known. For that reason, he told only the young priest at his beloved church, for he desperately needed prayers.
He worked very hard until the pain became intense and he was forced to admit that his long, happy days doing work he loved were soon to end. Before he put down his tools for good, however, he resolved to carve one last instrument. It would be his legacy and he would give it to the priest who had kept his secret.
It took him longer to complete the last fiddle than he'd expected, the crippling of his fingers having advanced rapidly, impeding his work more each day. Days drifted into months until finally, late on Christmas Eve night, the instrument was finished and the fiddle maker was ready at long last, to put away his carving tools forever.
He left his shop that cold, December night and walked through the narrow cobblestone streets to the rectory. The wet snow had turned to ice, making the walk difficult. It was after midnight when his gnarled old hand knocked softly at the young priest's door.
Two years later, the fiddle maker died. He left a widow and three daughters, one of whom eventually became the young priest's wife and my great-great grandmother.
I tell this story to my family every Christmas Eve, preserving the tradition just as my parents did before me. Before going to bed, we each open one gift, then all of us gather around the piano. Holding hands, we sing, "Silent Night," just as those who came before us did each Christmas Eve.
This custom is significant to our family; it gives us all a feeling of cohesiveness and helps us to realize the importance of staying closely connected, no matter what.
Last year, my grandchild, Will, was mesmerized by the fiddle I'd placed on an easel atop my piano. All during the day, he'd stop, gaze long and hard at it, then go away somewhere in his mind, as though listening to music only he could hear.
"You remember the story of the fiddle, don¹t you, Will,?" I asked. He nodded. But for the remainder of the day, each time he neared the piano, his little body would stop while his eyes stayed fixed on that fiddle. Pensive, he would then stroll away.
I was busy cooking turkey for the next day's dinner and making sure the tree was trimmed and gifts were wrapped. Will¹s preoccupation with the fiddle, by necessity, took a back seat until he tugged at my apron.
Can I just touch it, Mammy? Please? I think I have to touch it."
I admit I was more than a little wary of letting him get too close to the heirloom. Will is a sweetie, but he's also the proverbial accident waiting to happen. But I figured since the fiddle would one day go to him, why not let him feel the smooth, polished wood, pluck the age-old catgut, smell the rich cherry patina. Had it not managed to survive the small hands and fingers of children for over a hundred years?
With apprehension growing like Kudzu in my heart, I gave it to him, stood back and watched him hold it as tenderly as he would a newborn kitten. Suddenly, my anxiety disappeared like beach fog at noon. Will seemed to enter another room, a chamber only big enough for this one little boy and his reverie.
As if he had always known what to do, he placed the end of the fiddle on his shoulder then cradled it under his chin. His short fingers curled around the neck of the instrument as he shyly touched the frets.
I handed him the bow and watched in amazement as he ran it across the strings once, then twice, without squawking, as I had fully expected. The sound he produced was almost a melody.
"Gracious, Will! Why, you're a natural born musician. I'll bet you could play a Christmas Carol if you tried"
I didn¹t really think he could play a song. All the same, I was impressed that, at the tender age of eight years old, he had assumed the correct posture from the minute his hands touched the instrument.
I looked into my grandson's eyes. They were moist, older somehow, as though he had reached far into his soul searching for the first note to pluck.
He took a deep breath, then once again nestled the instrument on his small shoulder, resting his chin on the cup before closing his young/old eyes. The familiar refrain of "Silent Night" then began to float through the air as though Will, the fiddle and the music had become one and the same.
That Christmas, the fiddle became more to us than a seasonal decoration, more than an old family story handed down from one generation to another. It became a violin. Why? All because a little boy believed in the distant music that no one else could hear.
Sent to The cat's Meow by the author
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Wrapping Presents With the Help of Your Cat
1. Clear large space on table for wrapping present.
2. Go to closet and collect bag in which present is contained, and
close door.
3. Open door and remove cat from closet.
4. Go to cupboard and retrieve rolls of wrapping paper.
5. Go back and remove cat from cupboard.
6. Go to drawer, and collect transparent sticky tape, ribbons,
scissors, labels etc.
7. Lay out presents and wrapping materials on table, to enable
wrapping strategy to be formed.
8. Go back to drawer to get string, remove cat that has been in the
drawer since last visit and collect string.
9. Reopen drawer and re-remove cat.
10. Remove present from bag.
11. Remove cat from bag.
12. Open box to check present, remove cat from box, replace present.
13. Lay out paper to enable cutting to size.
14. Try and smooth out paper, realize cat is underneath and remove
cat.
15. Cut the paper to size, keeping the cutting line straight.
16. Throw away first sheet as cat chased the scissors, and tore the
paper.
17. Cut second sheet of paper to size - by putting cat in the bag the
present came in.
18. Place present on paper.
19. Lift up edges of paper to seal in present. Wonder why edges don't
reach. Realize cat is between present and paper. Remove cat and
retry.
20. Place object on paper, to hold in place, while cutting
transparent tape.
21. Spend 20 minutes carefully trying to remove transparent sticky
tape from cat with pair of nail scissors.
22. Seal paper with transparent sticky tape, making corners as neat
as possible.
23. Look for roll of ribbon. Chase cat down hall in order to retrieve
ribbon.
24. Try to wrap present with ribbon in a two-directional turn.
25. Re-roll ribbon and remove paper, which is now torn due to cat's
enthusiastic ribbon chase.
26. Repeat steps 13-20 until you reach last sheet of paper.
27. Decide to skip steps 13-17, in order to save time and reduce risk
of losing last sheet of paper. Retrieve old cardboard box, that is
the right size for sheet of paper.
28. Put present in box, and tie down with string.
29. Remove string, open box and remove cat.
30. Put all packing materials in bag with present and head for
lockable room.
31. Once inside lockable room, lock door and start to re-lay out
packing materials.
32. Remove cat from box, unlock door, put cat outside door, close
door and re-lock.
33. Repeat previous step as often as is necessary (until you can
hear cries from cat outside door.)
34. Lay out last sheet of paper. (This will be difficult in the small
area of the toilet, but do your best.)
35. Discover cat has already torn paper. Unlock door go out and hunt
through various cupboards, looking for sheet of last year's paper.
Remember that you haven't got any left because cat helped with
wrapping last year.
36. Return to lockable room, lock door, and sit on toilet and try to
make torn sheet of paper look presentable.
37. Seal box, wrap with paper and repair by very carefully sealing
tears with transparent tape. Tie up with ribbon and decorate with
bows to hide worst areas.
38. Label. Sit back and admire your handiwork, congratulate yourself
on completing a difficult job.
39. Unlock door, and go to kitchen to make drink and feed cat.
40. Spend 15 minutes looking for cat, before coming to obvious
conclusion.
41. Unwrap present, untie box and remove cat.
42. Retrieve all discarded sheets of wrapping paper. Feed cat.
Return to lockable room for last attempt, making certain you are
alone and the door is locked.
43. Find least torn and wrinkled sheets of paper. Attempt to use
sheets of same pattern.
44. Vainly try and wrap present in patchwork of paper. Tie with now
tattered ribbon and decorate with the now limp bows. Label and put
present in bag, for fear of anyone seeing this disaster.
45. When giving the gift, smile sweetly at receiver's face, as they
try and hide their contempt at being handed such a badly wrapped
present.
46. Swear to yourself that next year, you will get the store to wrap
the XXXX thing for you.
47. Smile smugly, knowing that the recipient could have received
a . . . cat!
Reprinted from The Cat's Meow, 12-19-02
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| Looking for cat treat recipes?
You can see the current delicacies to tempt your favorite feline here.
If you've enjoyed the Key Lessons we've reprinted,
be sure to watch for his articles. They'll be coming to our Body-Mind-Spirit page in early January, 2004. Watch for an announcement in The Cat's Meow!.
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